


Moon

by anzallamar



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Birna cameo, F/M, Hytham is a goddamn nerd and a troll, Hytham will find it someday, culture clash! we love some culture clash, there's probably an ancient treaty that says the Nile is more than a river, two idiots in love two of them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-13 13:14:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29029272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anzallamar/pseuds/anzallamar
Summary: “Eivor…do you know what this is?”This earned him a piqued look. “I know what a book is, Hytham.”In which Eivor gets Hytham a present and more than she bargained for.
Relationships: Eivor/Hytham (Assassin's Creed)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 82





	Moon

There were quite a few things that Hytham missed from his home – the warmth, the unexpected, fragrant breeze coming from the cracked gate of one of Baghdad’s many gardens, carrying the scents of fruit trees and the sounds of the inner courtyard’s life – but most of these he had taken into account when he had left with Basim, on their mission.

What he had not, admittedly, considered, was the abject lack of _reading material_ , made even worse that this grave deficit had snuck up on him after he had had the chance to visit the magnificent archive maintained by the bureau of Istanbul. Hytham supposed it was his fault, and his oversight: he simply could not have anticipated that the Norse, apparently, wrote very little.

He had first encountered this particular aspect of their culture back when, in Istanbul, Basim had tasked him with getting closer to the Varangian guard. _Learn their ways,_ he had said, _and what you can of their tongue in what time you have. It will help you in our pursuit._

Hytham had never been one to slack on any assignment, and of all his skills, he took particular pride in his  easiness for learning languages. Indeed, this was had first drawn the eyes of the Brotherhood on him, back when he was just an apprentice scribe  in the House of Wisdom. His quick mind,  and his determination, had gained him admittance to the Hidden Ones. 

He  remembered how he had infiltrated the Imperial Palace, in servant’s garb, trying to shadow the footsteps of the mysterious Viking warriors who guarded the Basileus’s safety. He had first found out their names, then their  stories, then he had, in a particular stroke of brilliance which had earned a commendation from the  _rafiq_ , discovered where they liked to drink their wages, and served as a waiter there, until he started to recognize the harsh sounds of the Norse language, and had also gained an understanding of some of their customs. 

The Varangians had taken to him, in the end. Hytham still remembered some of them fondly; he thanked them for giving him the first few keys to his mission in the North.  There was much he still found strange, and much he would probably never truly grasp, but if there was one thing Hytham believed in, it was the power of  _preparation_ . With the right planning and resources, there was nothing that could not be achieved. It was what had served him well in all missions. 

All missions prior to Kjotve.

Hytham dispelled the thought. He would not disgrace himself further by ruminating on his failure, not when he had his chance of restoring his honour spread out in front of him. On this desk, in the bureau that Eivor had graciously provided – a single room, with just a wall rug bearing the insignia, but Hytham knew that not even Rome had been built in a day – he traced the outline of Mercia’s rivers and coastlines, trying to follow the Order of the Ancients’ footsteps.

G ood thing he was not holding a quill, because it would have ruined the map if he had when Eivor burst through the door. 

“Hytham!”

The Assassins looked up. There she was, barely shorter than him, clad in furs and armor, carrying an axe, head half-shaven and inked with strange, swirling symbols: Eivor Varinsdottir .  Hytham supposed he would never forget Sigurd’s look when they had landed in Norway and their fresh ally had crushed her into a hug, and Hytham had realized that “my little sister, Eivor” and “the Wolfkissed, prized warrior and foremost raider of the clan” were, in fact, the same person. 

In a show of hospitality, Hytham had personally escorted Sigurd through the markets of Istanbul as the Viking selected presents to carry back to the clan, and he remembered Sigurd asking for his advice on what gift was best for a princess such as “my fair sister, a delicate soul, too pure for this world”.

Norse humour, Hytham thought. The Varingians had not been so thorough in their education.

“Safety and peace, Eivor. I hope your raid was successful.”

“Was there any doubt?” Eivor’s skill in battle was shadowed only by her granite trust in her own abilities. The _drengr_ entered the bureau, closed the door, and stood a few feet from Hytham’s desk, a grin as large and bright as the moon on her face. She seemed to be … hesitating.

Strange. Hytham knew Eivor was anything but. She looked like a cat who had just swallowed a very large pigeon.

“Is there some way I may assist you?”

“ _Hytham_.” sha said, finally. “I have _something_ for you.”

Eivor then produced the metaphorical large pigeon from behind her back, and held it proudly, arms extended.

Hytham’s heart skipped a beat.

  
“Eivor,” he said, mouth suddenly parched. “Where did you get _that_?”

“In a monastery,” she answered. “Those Order monks you said? Their abbot had it in his study.” Eivor positively _skipped_ to the desk and dropped it onto the map, where _it_ landed unceremoniously.

“You said you missed reading and well, I saw it there and thought: here’s Hytham’s prize!” She sat opposite him. “Well, don’t just stand there. Take it, it’s yours.”

Hytham tried to regain his wits. He reached over with both hands, but found them shaking. It was completely impossible for _it_ to be there, on his desk, it was even more unthinkable to touch it and _ruin_ it with his sweaty hands – _oh, for the love of the Creed, get a grip on yourself._

“Eivor…do you know what this is?”

This earned him a piqued look. “I know what a book is, Hytham.”

“No, I mean – I know you know how to read” Smooth, man, smooth. “I mean … this is not a roll of parchment. This is a _bound book_. A codex. Do you know how rare it is? How _priceless_? It’s worth more than what a merchant makes in a year – it’s probably worth more than _me_.” 

“You’re worth more than a cube of dead sheepskin, Hytham.” 

“No – the hours of labor that must have gone into this … the sheer amount of _care_ -”

“Freya’s tits, Hytham,” Eivor said. “Open the damn thing, will you?” 

H ytham  caressed the leather cover, then flipped it. Eivor’s gaze softened. 

“This… Eivor, I do not know what to say-”

“I do not know what _it_ says” Eivor answered. “because it’s written in your loopy runes. I suppose you will have to tell me, once you’ve picked your jaw off the floor, that is.” 

H ytham traced the writing lightly with his fingertips. Here were the letters he had studied and loved from childhood; here was what had kept him company through many nights, what shaped his thoughts; here, impossibly, a book written in his mothertongue,  like an unexpected caress. 

“Eivor…” 

“Hytham, I’ve sat on that book personally like a chicken through the voyage back to make sure it wouldn’t get lost or wet. If you do not immediately tell me what it says, I will stab you.” 

“It’s – I have never read it in its entirety, at the House of Wisdom we had mostly fragments-” 

  
“ _Hytham_ .” 

“It’s poetry.” 

Eivor’s face ligh ted up. After months, it  was still a marvel to Hytham how she  could , at a moment’s notice, reveal for a moment that there  was a young woman under the warpaint and battle scars. “A saga!” 

“Well, ” Hytham said. He flipped a page, reverently, revealing the colourful decorations of the incipit. “Actually, it seems to be a collection of love poems.” He flipped some more. “Yes, definitely. Would you like me to read you one?” Hytham asked, unaware that the colour had drained from Eivor’s face. “Like th-” 

  
“Hytham!” Eivor slam med her hand on his. “Don’t you know  _anything_ ?” 

“What, like that nothing is tru-” 

“Do you know what will happen if you read one aloud?” 

There  was a strange sense of urgency to Eivor’s voice. 

“I suppose there is the slight chance that I might enjoy it,” Hytham said, after some consideration, Eivor stills holding his hand. 

“It’s dangerous to read a love poem aloud. If you speak the words, you will make them binding. The words weave themselves and knot the fates of those involved. It’s – it’s _forbidden_. ” 

She seem ed serious, Hytham  thought . He had never seen her like this, not unless battle was involved. And yet … he  knew her well enough to sense her curiousity. 

“Very well. But does it work even if you don’t understand the language?”

“I – I don’t know.”

“There _i_ _s_ one way to find out.”

“Don’t-”

“Are you _afraid_ , Eivor?” 

“… Do it. I’m no coward.” 

Hytham flip ped to a page. 

It  felt strange to say the words aloud; he ha d not had anyone to speak the language to since Basim  had  left.  He read a few, short lines, then loo ked up. 

Eivor seem ed stonefaced. 

“I guess nothing happened. Did you _really_ slay a wolf as a child? Good thing it was not a poem.” 

“Do you think Basim will miss you? When he finds out I’ve strangled you with my own hands.” 

“Eivor,” Hytham said, pushing her hand back towards her. He noted it was slightly damp. “I have to tell you something. This was no poem. This was – I just recited a list of supplies I need for the next few days. Your face was priceless.” 

  
Eivor look ed at him, aghast. 

“It nearly pays me back for the time you pretended I had murdered you by teaching you how to leap off a cliff.”

E ivor stared.

“I must thank you earnestly, for I had never found a teacher in Norse humour as fine as yourself.”

N othing. 

  
“Eivor? Eivor, speak.”

She  got up abruptly, her face a few inches from his. “I’m going to – oh, Gods,  _fuck you_ ! Fuck you, Hytham!  _Gods_ !” 

H ythams watche d her slam the door. He look ed back over to the page, the words inked carefully, comparing the poet’s beloved to the radiance of the moon. 

Well, that eclipsed quickly.

* * *

Later that night, Birna found Eivor at the feast, at her customary place a few spots from Randvi’s seat of honour.

“Who pissed in your mead, Wolfkissed, and how is he still standing?” she asked, plopping down next to her, her own tankard swaying. When there was no answer, Birna followed Eivor’s green gaze to a spot in a dark corner of the longhouse, where a grey robe and hood could be faintly seen. 

“ _Him_?” 

“I’m going to kill him, Birna.”

“This sounds like a tale.”

Eivor sighed. “Very well. On your honour, Birna. I haven’t even told Randvi.”

“On my life, Eivor.”

* * *

“… and that’s that. I have to get back at him, Birna. I _have_ to.” Eivor crumpled her cheeks with her fingers cupping her face between her hands in frustration. “I can’t be played by someone who isn’t even a _drengr_.” 

“Freya’s tits, Eivor. The little eaglet got you good. It’s always the quiet ones, isn’t it?”

“I think I dropped my guard because he’s a foreigner. He always looks like he has a stick up his arse, _how_ was I supposed to know he knew how to prank?” 

“Eivor,” Birna said, placing her hand on the other’s shoulder. “I am going to be honest with you, because you are my sworn _drengr_ and you have given me a new life in your home.”   
  
“Thank you, Birna. I value your counsel.” 

“I think what got your braids unravelled is not that you got the wool pulled over your hears by a wet duckling from overseas, it’s that you _really_ wanted him to read you that poem.”

“ _Birna_ -” 

“Oh, believe me, Wolfkissed. This might not be my usual dance, but I know the steps well enough. I’m telling you, the only way out is that you go up to him right now, and demand he reads you the whole godsdamned book. With pictures, if needs be. Are there pictures?”

“I think he said his people look down on pictures.”

“I guess you’re both left with your imagination, then, but I have faith in your abilities.” Birna stood up. “Well, let me know how it goes, Wolfkissed. My my, the wolf and the eagle, a tale fit for a skald.” 

“Birna!”

“Not a word out of you on this until you’ve made some progress, Eivor!”

“ _Birna_!” 

She laughed. 

**Author's Note:**

> I know nothing about Islamic Golden Age poetry, unfortunately, so you may imagine your favourite poem in this. 
> 
> I imagine Hytham apprenticed at the historic House of Wisdom in 9th century Abbasid Baghdad, that he was a scribe, a complete nerd, and a perfectionist. Also I imagine the House is actually a Brotherhood secret base. 
> 
> Hytham freaks out because bound books were generally really expensive, it's like Eivor pulled a small car out of thin air. 
> 
> Did you know that Islamic poetry was key to a lot of subsequent traditions including courtly love, and that the Islamic Golden Age was instrumental in preserving a lot of Greek and classical works?


End file.
